a river that is all dried up, an ocean nothing floats on
by lord-is-it-mine
Summary: "It's January, right? Shit." ((a very very very belated birthday fic for one Dean Winchester. WARNING: MAJOR ANGST/SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. also explicit sexual content and a whole lotta coarse language))


**_((these notes are so long im sorry)) i started writing this in january of 2014, when dean was thirty-five; in canon, he was suffering from the mark of cain- 2014 is also the year that "the end" is set in. so i was gonna do a parallel structure thing, his birthday in present canon (season nine) and his birthday in the endverse. this is what that is, it's just a year late. TO BE CLEAR. THIS IS SET DURING SEASON NINE /AS WELL AS/ DURING THE ENDVERSE. i know we're into season ten now, but ive finally finished this bitch, after a year of procrastinating. i hope that's not too confusing._**

**_the fic jumps between the two universes. THEN refers to the endverse- NOW refers to season nine canon, sometime after dean is beginning to suffer from the mark of cain's side effects, while he's still separated from sam and cas. i don't know what episodes it falls between, but i can do what i want with the timeline. it's my fic. i tried to split the sections in a way that doesn't make the story too hard to follow. if it is, let me know and i can consider re-formatting it._**

**_title is from Daisy - Brand New_**

* * *

_**Then. **_

He wakes up with little thought of what day it is. The dates have long since been lost to him. His 'life' is now nothing but a cycle of day, night, day, night, day, night. Even then he rarely notices the passage of time, killing constantly and 'sleeping' in sporadic bursts of unconsciousness due to consumption of alcohol. The nightmares have stopped, but he is plagued by the constant obsession that never lets him alone. Find the colt. Kill the devil. Get some rest. That last part always makes him smile, twisted and dark as that smile may be. His right to ever rest again was taken from him ages ago. Ages.

It's January, right?

_Shit._

He peels his face off the table he fell asleep while slumped over. The arm his head was on is waking up, stinging pins and needles through his fingers. He flexes his hand and runs it through his hair. Surprised he hasn't gone bald yet.

_Thirty-five isn't that old, dude._

He hears an echo of what might be Sam's voice in his head- it's been so long, he's forgotten the sound. But then he remembers how much he's forgetting, because Sam would actually be saying,

_Happy Birthday old-timer._

With a smile. Dean tries to remember the last time he saw Sam smile. The sasquatch's face is there, but the details are out of focus, radio static and smudged ink. Been that long, huh?

He can feel thirty-five in his joints when he gets to his feet; shouldn't be able to, but he does. For a hunter, thirty-five might as well be fifty. For him, it's more like sixty. Technically it should be nothing. He's died and gone to hell. Got his ass pulled out (for no good reason), and here he is, living existing on borrowed stolen time. He thinks about pouring himself a drink to mark the passage of another year in which he's managed not to kick it- of course he'll pour himself a drink whether there's an occasion to or not.

There's a knock at his door. He waits for no reason at all until the knocker identifies himself.

"Dean? You awake?" It's Chuck. He goes and opens the door. A blast of freezing cold air knocks any remaining sleep out of him. Chuck looks frostbitten and homeless, which isn't far off. Dean stands aside and lets the poor guy in. Not that it's really that much warmer. Less windy maybe.

"Morning." Chuck greets. Well, then it's morning. Must be early, the sky's still dark. Dean looks at his watch. It's six-thirty. He's been asleep for a grand total of one hour. Feels like that's more sleep than he's gotten all week.

"We need to do a supply run." Chuck practically flinches as he says this. He knows how Dean hates unscheduled supply runs. Unscheduled anything, really.

"What?"

"Uh, yeah, it looks like some of the, uh, perishables were, uh. Frozen." Chuck's voice turns to a low whisper.

"_What._"

"Yeah, I know, those are the hardest things to find, I don't know how it happened, the door to the storage cabin got left open, and-"

"Who was the last one in there?"

"I- I don't know." Chuck shakes his head. "It wasn't me."

"What'd we lose?" Dean really doesn't wanna know.

"Mostly the stuff that was in glass jars, they all cracked. The fruit that was left is toast."

"Can we get more?"

"There's only one store we haven't hit in town, after that we're gonna have to move on to somewhere else entirely. It doesn't look good though- we can _probably_ replace the jarred stuff, if the store has been sealed well enough. I don't know about the fruit."

"Okay. We'll leave in half an hour. You're coming on this one. Bring Risa- I'll get Cas." He grabs his coat off the back of the chair he was just 'sleeping' in and trudges off into the cold.

* * *

_**Now. **_

He wakes up with little thought of what day it is. The dates have begun to blur together. It's like his life is now nothing but a cycle of day, night, day, night, day, night. Time passes on the road, not on a clock. He's been driving around for what seems like forever, with the King of Hell no less, and even now that he's finally stopped after days of no sleep, it takes a serious amount of booze to knock him out. He's waiting at a motel somewhere near Lebanon (Missouri, that is), while Crowley scours the Pacific for any sign of the first blade. He's alone.

The nightmares have returned in full force. He's plagued by the constant vision of a highway, endless and unforgiving ahead of him. Every time he checks to see if Sam is next to him (he knows he won't be), Kevin is there in the front seat, staring straight ahead even though his eyes are burned right out of his skull, skin white as white ashes, head hanging slightly to the side while his mouth moves in silent question: _"Why?"_

Dean keeps waking up in cold sweats, wishing for nothing more than a chance to rest. But he won't; not for ages. Ages.

It's January, right?

_Shit. _

He peels his face off the dingy sheet he'd been sprawled on. His arm is burning as soon as he's mildly conscious, and he hisses as his fingers move. He presses his thumb to the raised edges of the mark- as of that's gonna relieve the pain. It's hurting in his bones now, and he's begun to wonder what Cain was talking about when he said 'consequences'. Surprised his bones hadn't hurt before now, what with his age and all.

_Thirty-five isn't that old, dude._

Dean's head snaps up to see if Sam is standing there. He's not. As if he would ever say that anyway.

_Happy Birthday old-timer._

With a smile. Dean can just barely remember the last time Sam smiled. It was right before Gadreel took off with his body- when they were in that bar, drinking beers with Cas. Who was tipsy. And hilarious. Seems like it coulda been five years ago. _That long, huh?_

He can feel thirty-five in his joints when he gets to his feet; shouldn't be able to, but he does. Thirty-five feels like fifty. It's really more like sixty. Might as well be nothing, considering he should be rotting in hell. For multiple reasons. It's not like anything particularly good has come of his ass being dragged out of the pit. This time he's been living on isn't his. It's a lot of other peoples'; Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Kevin- _Kevin_. He thinks about pouring himself a drink to mark the passage of another year in which he probably should have kicked it, but then he knows he'll pour himself a drink whether there's an occasion to or not.

His phone buzzes on the bedside table. He stares at it, not checking the text for what has to be five minutes. Then he looks.

_Happy Birthday Dean._

It's from Cas. Dean rolls the phone over in his hand, shakes his marked arm and walks to the front window. A blast of freezing cold air pushes against the glass, howling and screaming about how it can't get in. It's not a white winter, but bitter, the instant frostbite as soon as you step outside kind of January. Not that it's really that much warmer inside. Less windy maybe. He looks at the phone in his hand, and dials the number of the phone Cas texted him from. One ring, two, three-

"Good morning Dean." Well, then it's morning. Must be early, the sky's still dark. Dean looks at his watch. It's six-thirty. He's been asleep for a grand total of one hour. Feels like that's more sleep than he's gotten all week.

"Hey Cas." He starts coming up with replies to whatever Cas has to say before Cas even says anything.

_I'm nowhere._

_I can't come back._

_You wouldn't like it if I told you._

_There's no point._

_I miss you._

"How are you?"

"I feel like shit." That's the most honest thing he's said since he apologised to Cas for kicking him out of the bunker. Since he called himself poison.

"Where are you?"

"I'm-" he wants to lie, but the only thing that comes to mind is the truth. "I'm at the Red Moon Motel in Lebanon Missouri."

"There's a Lebanon in Missouri?"

"Apparently."

Cas doesn't hesitate. "I'm coming to see you."

"Cas, don't-"

"I'm coming to see you." Cas repeats. And he hangs up.

* * *

_**Then.**_

_Mornin' sleepin' beauty. Rise and shine. Up an' at 'em._

"Cas! Wake the hell up, we gotta go on a supply run." Dean doesn't bother to shut the cabin door behind him when he comes in uninvited, letting the brash morning invade the room. Cas groans in his sleep and pulls the blanket farther up over his shoulders. Dean wonders what combination of shit he's on that knocks him out so well. He wonders if he should try it. Later. Right now he wants to get through this stupid run so he go back to his cabin and drink away the rest of his birthday in (relative) peace. But Cas is not a morning person, especially since the whole 'spiritual enlightenment' crap.

"What day is it?" Cas mumbles from his cocoon- his voice is scratchier than ever, and muffled by the covers. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Friday?"

"What _day_ is it?" Cas finally pokes his head out, hair messy as hell, dark circles dark as ever.

"It's the twenty-fourth. Now get the fuck outta bed."

Cas grumbles an insult in some foreign language and pulls himself upright, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. The blanket drops to reveal that Cas slept in last night's clothes- combat boots and all. In the summer, he sleeps naked. Dean is well acquainted with naked sleepy Cas. he likes naked sleepy Cas better. _Naked_ sleepy Cas is less grumpy. And less clothed. Now, he just sits perched on the edge of the mattress, looking up at Dean with an exhausted and bewildered glare.

"I feel like the twenty-fourth is significant. It is, isn't it? Do we know anybody who was born on the twenty-fourth?" Cas has become so good at dead-pan sarcasm, Dean can't tell if he's playing dumb or actually so high he's finally forgotten Dean's birthday. It hasn't happened yet. Somehow, he doesn't think that it's happening now. He catches something mischievous in Cas's eye that tells him he's right. Dean has long since lost the will to be mischievous. On his better days, Cas still has enough schemes for both of them.

"No. We don't. But I_ will_ know someone who _died_ on the twenty-fourth if you don't get your ass in gear and get out to the jeep. _Now_."

It's the most clever retort Dean has been able to muster in God knows how long. Their relationship brings that out in him- from the worst of his biting remarks to the best of his efforts (not that they're worth much these days). Cas looks mildly amused and moderately impressed, but not at all threatened. That's another side-effect of Dean and Cas being _Dean and Cas_\- Cas knows that Dean could never lay a hand on him in actual violence- no matter how thoroughly the world fucks with his head. It used to be a comfort- now Cas just thinks of himself as Dean's greatest weakness.

Dean doesn't wait for Cas to catch up- there's no doubt that he'll follow. He hears footsteps behind him before he even reaches the bottom of the porch steps. Cas breathes heavily and falls into stride- Dean glances over and instantly wonders if Cas will be warm enough- none of them have proper winter coats, but it seems like Cas's clothes are always the least insulated. The lining of his canvas jacket is ripped, torn completely off in places- Dean makes a note to do a patch job later. His base instinct is to ask if Cas wants to borrow another jacket- if he'll be okay in what he's wearing. It's only a vague pull now; the alcoholism and the end of the world have changed his priorities- instincts are fundamental for survival- Dean just has a different set of them that he pays attention to.

He means to say something- but Chuck has started the jeep, hitched up the trailer, and is looking at him expectantly- Risa throws a duffel bag of ammo and weapons in the back, and side-eyes Cas like she always does. Dean makes a note to ask her what the fuck her problem is with Cas.

Cas casually smacks Dean's ass before hopping into the jeep, settling his semi-automatic rifle in his lap. Dean huffs out a laugh. Risa nearly scoffs and side-eyes Cas harder.

Oh. So _that's_ it. God. Dean used to be able to tell if a woman wanted him within five minutes of meeting her. He's getting slow. Or his field of vision is narrowing. Possibly both. A couple more of these birthday things and he can blame it on old age.

Dean gets behind the wheel with Cas on his right- Chuck and Risa climb in the back and the jeep rumbles off over the frozen ground.

At some point, Dean feels Cas's (freezing cold) fingers start to draw circles on the inside of his thigh. The higher Cas's hand gets, the more Dean feels like turning the jeep right around and telling Chuck to get his own damn supplies until winter is over. Dean looks at Cas and finds not a hint of emotion on the ex-angel's face. The same mischievous glint is still in his eye, though. Dean sighs and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

It's gonna be a _long_ day.

* * *

_**Now.**_

_How far is Lebanon Missouri from Lebanon Kansas?_

Google maps tells Dean that it's nearly eight hours by car. If Cas leaves by seven A.M. and stops for three of four fifteen minute breaks (_does he even need to do that now?_), then how much time does Dean have to make up a good excuse for the hideous red scorch mark on his arm?

It's one hell of a math problem. Dean figures Cas won't arrive until two or three in the afternoon. He briefly considers grabbing his stuff and getting the hell outta dodge before Cas shows up- there's _plenty_ of time for that. he could be out of Missouri altogether before Cas even realises- but then, something in him rots and falls apart at the thought of tricking Cas. He told Cas right where he was without a fight. Obviously, part of him wants to see Cas; part of him wants to tell Cas everything- _I fucked up, Cas. I fucked up and I don't know if anyone can help me- but I need you to help me. I need you._

Ten minutes pass before he wonders if Cas can hear him, now that he's got his mojo back. That was always the problem with praying; it only goes one way. He's never heard Cas's voice in his head, never known whether Cas has heard all the things he's never said out loud.

_We're family Cas. _

_We need you._

_I need you._

It's been a long time since then. They've never talked about that. After Cas fixed Dean's face and fucked off with the angel tablet, Dean was just a little too angry and a lot too embarrassed to bring it up again. Cas tried to make amends, but then the angels fell and his humanity happened- Dean wasn't there for most of it. But God, when he'd seen Cas slumped over dead-

Need has always been synonymous with love in Dean's mind. He doesn't allow himself the indulgence, the weakness of calling it that, but that's what it is. Family is the highest ranking status he can give a person. Family, however fucked up it is, has always been the only thing Dean's had. He had family. He fucked up. He fucked up and walked away and then fucked up some more. It seems like he fucks up the most when Cas isn't around. That has to mean something.

His head hurts. He figures that's a sign he's starting to sober up. Time for more whiskey. Dad used to call it a hunter's best friend- it's good for cleaning wounds and killing pain and getting rid of the more unpleasant memories that one in their line of work might manage to be burdened with. Dean can barely remember one of the first nights his dad had let him sit up and drink after a hunt. He remembers going from buzzed to drunk and liking it so much and not understanding how anyone could want to get angry at their kids when they were this hammered.

There's hammered, and then there's whatever the fuck this is.

Dean can admit that he's probably got a drinking problem. It's not hard to admit that at all. Dean has _a lot_ of problems. He chalks them up to bad parenting and a severe case of post traumatic stress. His excuses are his pride and joy- the best polished shit this side of the Pacific Ocean. But for all his mastery in the art of bullshit- he can't find one single reason (believable or otherwise) that justifies taking on the mark of Cain.

He can't hide it- long sleeves make him want to itch right out of his skin, to rip himself out of his own body- the mark makes it too hot to handle anything other than a t-shirt and jeans. He's had a low-grade fever ever since the mark branded itself on him- sometimes it spikes, but mostly he just feels burned.

He can't excuse, he can't hide. That just leaves the truth. Telling Cas everything that happened, from messy start to even messier finish. It's all too easy for him to imagine how Cas will react- the doubt and disappointment that will flood his face- the anger and frustration that will arc around him like a lightning storm. Dean deserves all of it. He deserves every bit of Cas's rage and more.

Something makes Dean think of Cain's face when he talked about Collette- to total disbelief he felt when she somehow found it in herself to love him despite the trail of blood that followed him from the dawn of time.

Dean used to wonder if Cas could've ever loved him like that.

He knows it's stupid to hope for anything like that now.

So. The ugly truth it is then. If Cas is gonna end up hating him in the end anyway, he might as well start the hating now.

It feels like it's been hours, sitting here, thinking about Cas turning around and leaving him again. He looks at his watch- it's only been seven minutes. Fuck.

Dean doesn't like vicodin. He doesn't like the aftertaste, or the inconsistent buzz, or how it isn't an exact science. He can never find the right ratio of painkillers to whiskey that knocks him out for precisely eight hours. He used to worry about accidentally overdosing in his pursuit of a good night's rest. Now, he sort of thinks that if he offs himself this time, it might not be _strictly_ accidental. It doesn't scare him either, the realisation that he's more than a little ready to die. He's been here before. Multiple times. That's pretty fucking sad in itself. Right now, he really would just like to sleep. At least if he's unconscious, he can't handle any weapon that might hurt him.

He grabs the whole medical bag out of the trunk, and when he dumps it on the coffee-stained table in the motel room, he swears loudly at Sam for being fucking psychic. Or his mom. Or both.

All the pills are gone. Vanished, kaput, and he tries to remember the last time sasquatch was in his car, when he could have taken them and doomed Dean to another fucking day of this hell- or at the very least, another day of it without sleep. Dean it starting to miss the other hell. _That_, well, that might scare him a little, if nothing else does.

"Why didn't you just take the knives and guns while you were at it, huh?" He yells at no one in particular. He knows he could so easily swallow a bullet (hell, he'll eat a whole clip) but somehow he wants to live long enough to kick Sam's ass one last god damned time. For now, he's got eight hours before the end of his only relationship, such as it is. Dean sighs and tightens his fingers around the mark.

It's gonna be a _long_ day.

* * *

**Then.**

Of all the places you would expect to be destroyed during the end of days, the stores would be the first.

Dean remembers the riots- the chaos and the anarchy that bled through the healthy population just after the Croatoan outbreak a few years back. There wasn't a single person or police force to maintain order as people scrambled to get as many supplies as they could before hauling ass to the nearest uninfected quarantine area. The irony is, those government run places were probably better stocked than anywhere. Lots of people at Camp Chitaqua left to try and join them- none of them ever came back. Camp Chitaqua may not be owned and operated by uncle Sam, but they know how to keep the Croats out and their people alive.

Dean remembers the week after he, Cas and Bobby found the camp. They barely made it out of the local store alive, Cas with a black eye and Dean with a small stab wound to his upper arm. Bobby of course had been in the car, away from the droves of people trying to rip each other's throats out just to get the last jug of milk. Dean emptied the place with a couple high-aimed shotgun shells. When everyone had scattered, Cas had made some snide remark about how displays of masculine dominance had always turned him on. That's what Dean remembers most. It was one of the first times he'd ever heard Cas make an honest-to-God joke.

The store in question was one of those little hick town mom-and-pop places off the main road- the kind that played oldies (really oldies) over the speaker, and the cashier knew her customers by name because there were only a dozen or two people that ever shopped there. Now it's a dirty cardboard box with two brownish yellow awnings flapping in the wind. The painted letters above the door are faded; some have fallen off, turning 'Marley's' into 'M-L-Y'.

Dean himself has long since boarded up the big front windows and doors, to keep Croats and weather out; what's left on the inside has been remarkably preserved. Chuck has been taking from its stores bit by bit, which Dean doesn't understand at all; he's always voted that they loot all the stores they can within a safe distance- take everything. That way, supply runs become few and far between. Dean doesn't like leaving the camp unless he absolutely has to; and he likes to stay close if he can at all help it. They're not even twenty minutes out and he's already itching to get back. If he could get to colt to come to him, he most certainly would. Not that he really cares about his own safety (that ship has long since sailed)- it's just that lives are a currency he's not very wealthy in at the moment. Having to execute the infected population every time they roll back into camp is beginning to feel a lot like going broke. Which is why it's just the four of them on this run- the four of them and some very heavy firepower.

"What's on the list, Chuck?" Cas sidles up next to Chuck when they hop off the jeep, like this is a fucking picnic. Dean envies and hates his ability to make everything seem like no big deal.

"Pickles and fruit."

"Pickles?" Dean gripes. "That's the 'jarred goods' you got me up at the ass crack of dawn in the freezing fucking cold to come and get? _Pickles_?"

"And fruit." Cas is the only one not at all intimidated by Dean's whining. The only reason anyone else is intimidated by it is because Dean carries a lot of knives; and he knows how to use them.

Risa pries one of the boards off the window- it comes away easily, as do a few others- designed to look sturdy to intruders, but they allow Dean's team to get into the store without much effort. Dean goes in first, stepping over the bottom boards and ducking under the top ones- the rest of them follow, and Dean immediately shines his flashlight around the darkened room, checking the corners and behind the shelves for Croats. He doesn't find any. Good sign. Of course, if Dean had ever let a good sign dictate his expectations for the future, well. He wouldn't be here to have such a pessimistic outlook, would he?

"I remember the first time we were here," Cas says as Chuck and Risa fan out across the room. "They were playing Sinatra. I think it was 'Blue Skies'. Everyone was trying to kill each other."

"How is it that you remember what song was playing here two years ago, but you can't remember what you did yesterday?" Risa scowls, her face all the more bitter in the dim and dusty light.

"I thought it was funny." Cas shrugs. He either doesn't see how much she can't stand him, or he knows, and he's living just to piss her off. Dean bets on the latter.

"Never saw the sun shinin' so bright, never saw things lookin' so right," Cas sings in a strange monotone, "and one woman nearly got her eyes clawed out. Irony. Hilarious." He adds. Risa grumbles something about psychopaths under her breath and moves farther away. Cas smiles hazily.

Yup. Definitely wants to piss her off.

"The fruit's all gone to shit." Chuck calls from the back of the store.

"I'm _shocked_." Dean mumbles.

"There are a couple cases of pickles here." Chuck comes around the corner, motioning to the back store room. "They should make up for the ones we lost."

"Are they even still good?" Risa sounds sceptical, as usual.

"It's eighteen months past the date on them, so yeah, they should still be good." Chuck explains as if he thinks Risa actually cares what the answer is. "An unopened jar of pickles will last two years after the printed date."

"How the fuck do you even know that?" Risa asks. Cas is clearly thinking the same thing. Dean just wants to get back to base.

"I wrote a book once where there was a-"

"Great. Let's get them and get the hell back to camp." Dean orders. "Cas, go help Chuck. Risa, let's get the jeep started up." He turns and sees Cas staring at a shelf.

"Cas! Get going."

"Right." Cas says. He doesn't move, just watches Dean until he steps out of the hole in the wall. The mischief is gone from his face, replaced with a mournful sort of nostalgia. Dean doesn't see any of it.

By the time they've loaded the rotting cardboard cases into the back of the jeep and turned out onto the road, the sun has started to peak through the trees to the East of them, weak and easily yielding to the darkness of the forest. The North promises a storm, dark clouds rolling in thick and fast. The roads will be iced up for a week, if not longer. Dean looks forward to no more supply runs for at least that long.

Cas slides in next to him, this time maintaining a reasonable distance. Dean tries to think of a time when he wouldn't have noticed, before he and Cas became so hypersensitive to one another's physical presence. He can barely recall when they first met, (he can barely recall anything pre-apocalypse) and even then, he's pretty sure he and Cas were connected by some mojo that no one's ever been able to understand. Cas explained it once (also pre-apocalypse, so Dean's a little fuzzy)- it has something to do with the connection they formed in hell. Dean sneaks a peak at the husk of a man next to him and is incredibly aware of how different Cas is- he's not the same person at all. Neither of them are, really.

Cas quietly hums "Blue Skies" all the way back to camp.

* * *

_**Now.**_

Of all the ways Dean has ever imagined dying, boredom is probably the last.

Dean remembers when he and Sam were kids, and their dad would leave them stranded in motel rooms similar to the one he's in now, with nothing but a little food and a six-shooter in case whatever they were hunting tracked them there. Sam would always find things to do; books, toys, whatever he managed to pull out of the Impala before their dad raced off with it. Dean, who had resigned himself to being too old for such things, had taken to cleaning weapons and carving his name into the headboard, somewhere it would never be seen, but so he would know it was there. 'DW' must be scratched into a couple dozen headboards across the Midwest.

Dean remembers one time when Sam was eleven or twelve and had caught Dean wheedling away at the cheap veneer of the bedpost. Instead of lecturing him like he might have done when he was younger, he joined in. From then on, The 'DW' was always accompanied by a much smaller and shakier 'SW' just below it. It was around that time that they marked up the Impala, too, imprinting themselves into the car with no possible way of knowing how much of a center point she would become to them. Dean didn't really feel the need to mark up any bedposts after that.

It's the first thing he does in order to kill the time (and keep from killing himself) until Cas gets here. He figures if he can survive long enough to see Cas, he might just wanna suffer on for another day. Cas has that effect on him- the weird kind of hope that somehow outdoes misery every single time. Dean can't really call it hope. He just wants to see Cas again. So he puts 'DW' into the dark wooden bed frame with the tip of his knife. He thinks about the first blade the whole time he does it, thinks about what he's going to do once he gets it into his hands. He imagines a lot of blood and a lot of relief; he imagines the pull and the tenseness in his muscles going slack.

He imagines a lot of things will happen when he finally gets his hands on the first blade.

After his initials are well and truly part of the headboard, he starts on the second tradition of bored hunter children alone in motel rooms. He pulls out and disassembles every gun in the Impala- he cleans them meticulously, polishing and oiling until they work like new instead of the thirty-year-old pieces of shit that some of them are. Maybe someone needs to take him apart and clean him too.

Once that's done, and the sun has long since risen behind the dark storm clouds rolling in from the Northeast, Dean lines up all the clips and bullets and shotgun shells in order of calibre, setting them in immaculate rows on the table and just looking at them, mentally reviewing which ones do more graphic damage to a human skull. Somehow it's therapeutic. Somehow he never lets the bullets anywhere near the guns. Somehow he survives.

He goes to work on the knives next.

At about one-thirty, he's tuned in halfway through an episode of Bar Rescue (watching a middle aged man yell at people who royally fucked up is somehow very satisfying), and there's a machete in his lap. He's sharpened it, and now he carefully cleans the blade off, gingerly avoiding slicing his own hand off (if he's gonna die, it's gonna be with all his appendages intact, dammit). On the TV, John Taffer looks like he's about to have an aneurism, and Dean can see his reflection in the machete blade; for once, he actually looks better than he feels. He still looks like complete and utter shit though.

There's a knock at the door.

Dean's heart leaps into his throat, and he nearly falls off the bed. He's been so busy trying not to think about what Cas is gonna say when he finds out about the mark, that he's completely forgotten to prepare himself for what Cas is gonna say when he sees the mark.

"Dean." Cas's voice carries easily through the thin door and over the sound of the TV. Dean can pick up the note of concern. He turns off the TV, and barely remembers to put down the machete before he opens the door, right arm tucked awkwardly behind his back.

"Hey Cas."

"Dean." Cas says again, as if he had half expected the worst; he seems surprised to see Dean standing there, breathing, and remarkably, almost sober.

"Get in here so I can close the door before I freeze my balls off." Dean ushers Cas inside and shuts the door against the rising winds outside. He catches a brief glimpse of Cas's car.

"Still driving that pimpmobile?" He jokes, but the words, in their weight, fall dead to the floor. "You made good time." He turns quickly as Cas walks by him, calculating the distance between them and making sure to keep his arm out of Cas's line of sight. It hits him, just how hypersensitive he is to Cas's physical presence. Though he tries, he can't really remember a time when it wasn't like this, even when they first met (of course, everything pre-apocalypse is kind of fuzzy). He somehow knows that Cas as always felt it too- some kind of mojo that no one can explain. It probably has something to do with the connection they formed in hell. Dean stares long and hard at the angel-turned human-turned angel again, and is incredibly aware of how different Cas is- he's not the same person at all. Neither of them are, really.

"Yes, well, I drove without stopping." Cas explains, unaware of Dean's inner monologue. He warily eyes the weapons scattered around the room. "And I may have broken a few traffic laws."

"Aw, Cas, you shouldn't have." Even his false bashfulness sounds unusually hollow. "I'd hate to think you went the way of the common criminal on account of little old me." _I'd hate to think you've ever done anything you wouldn't have normally done just because of me. How many times have you, now?_

"Dean, are you alright? You seem... different." Cas does the squinty thing, and Dean shrugs. Cas steps closer, and Dean nearly bolts.

"Yeah Cas, I'm fine. seriously, what are you-"

Cas grabs Dean's arm and wrenches is out from behind his back. Dean gasps in pain when Cas's fingers graze the mark. His arm pulses, reacting to Cas's grace in a way it's never reacted to anything before. Cas's eyes glow blue, his mouth set in a line of rage, and it doesn't occur to Dean to think that maybe, Cas isn't actually angry at him. The pain shoots through him again, and he can't help but to let out an involuntary cry, somewhere between a young child and a wounded animal.

"Dean, what the hell have you _done_?" Cas grits out through his teeth. Every fear Dean had about Cas's reaction is realised, and while he's devastated, he's also relieved. He had this coming. Cas knows. Dean's done. That's it. It's over.

"I did what I had to do." _Bad excuse_. "It's a means to an end." _Even worse_. "Once I get the first blade, I can kill Abaddon, and then Crowley, and we can go after Metatron- we can get your grace back. Your _real_ one." Cas glares at him with the fury of a wild beast and Dean balks. _Really not helping yourself here, man_.

"If you think I'm letting you anywhere near the first blade, you're even more delusional than you were when you decided to do _this_." Cas slides his hand back down Dean's arm, away from the mark, gripping tightly on his wrist, like Dean is going to run. As if he can, with Cas's eyes gluing to him to the spot. The pain recedes enough for him to notice, disbelievingly, that there's concern somewhere in Cas's rage.

"Cas-"

"Damn it, Dean." Cas growls, and where Dean expects to get socked in the jaw, he only gets Cas's arms wrapped around him, tight and unyielding. It feels like a punch to the face- the shock, the adrenaline, the blood pounding thick and heavy in his veins. He feels his broken, wretched soul reach out for Cas, and Cas, by some miracle, reaches back. _Tell me what happened_, something says to him. _Tell me so I can help you_.

"I'm sorry Cas. I'm so fucking sorry." Dean breaks down and puts his arms around Cas, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the trench coat.

Cas quietly holds him until he's all cried out.

* * *

_**Then.**_

The storm hits at about three in the afternoon. There's nearly an hour of rain gone to sleet gone to hail- nothing too big, although Dean could have sworn he heard something like a baseball clatter against the thin roof off his cabin. He drinks and drinks until he finally feels something- his tolerance is so high, and he's shocked that he's never had an overdose. Cardiac arrest doesn't sound too bad most of the time, if he's being honest. Some days, the search for the colt is all that really keeps him breathing. And with the way that's been going lately- it's pretty thin ice. He expects his foot to go through anytime now.

By five, the storm has stilled enough that Dean can safely venture outside. Though there's nothing falling from the sky at the moment, there's a sharp wind that whips through camp, biting at his body as soon as he steps outside. He sets off into a jog, feeling as though the skin of his face will be flayed clean off if he stays out here too long. There's not another soul to speak of- everyone has hunkered down, closed their doors and their curtains, lit fires and prayed that the worst of winter will be over soon. Dean hasn't given much thought to it, but praying really is the most ineffective thing you can do to fend off a crisis nowadays. He knows. He's tried.

He makes it to Cas's cabin in record time, once again bursting in without further ado. He's walked in on Cas in the throes of one pleasure or another, more than he would have liked. 'Jealousy is bad for Dean's blood pressure' is something Cas said to one of the girls once. Dean knows he has no honest right to care who Cas fucks around with. Dean's slept with other people. The end of the world tends to take a toll on committed relationships, even ones as ridiculously all-consuming as theirs. Tonight though, Dean _knows_ that Cas will be alone. It's the twenty-fourth. Cas is to ritualistic to disrespect their unofficial tradition. He stands in the doorway for a moment, his train of thought aborted, like he was going to say something important and suddenly forgot.

"Get in here and shut the door before I freeze my balls off. It wouldn't be productive for either of us." Cas calls him out of his trance. Dean does so, watching Cas light incense on the table at one end of the cabin. He saunters over and plants himself on the floor, leaning back against the bed. Dean kicks off his boots and joins him, the floor creaking under his weight, matching the walls as another gust of wind hits the cabin hard. There's a roaring fire going in the old stone fireplace, and it's warmer on the floor than it would have been on the bed; Dean can feel the cold sheets pressing into his shoulder blades, even through his many layers of clothing. He shrugs out of his coat and the jacket underneath it- that leaves him in his Henley, which is less warm but more comfortable. Dean gives little thought to comfort now, what with the world ending and all. But what the hell, he might not have that many birthdays left- none left, if he has his way. He might as well pull out at least _some_ of the stops.

He looks over at Cas when he hears the flick of a lighter, watching Cas's lips on a cigarette and letting his mind go all sorts of places. He wants Cas's mouth- he wants that cigarette. In the context of this room, in this moment, that's all he cares about. No colt. No devil. Just Cas and his obscene mouth on that cigarette. Cas opens his mouth wider than is strictly necessary to blow smoke, and just lets it curl upward past his sunken eyes toward the ceiling. Dean's breath catches- Cas can still make that happen, God damn him. Dean blinks once, twice, and Cas wordlessly hands him the cigarette, head lolling back and perfectly showing off his neck. Dean wonders why Cas even bothers with this anymore- the seduction- the foreplay. Dean wonders why Cas even bothers to try and make this anything like is used to be, way back when.

"So, it's the twenty-fourth." Cas says on Dean's second drag of the cigarette. "What would you like for your birthday, Dean?"

"I'll tell you what, Cas," Dean answers as Cas crawls into his lap, straddling his thighs like he was born to do. Dean's smoke filled exhale obscures the air between them, cloudy and heated like Cas's gaze. Dean smirks. "I don't want to hear another mention of my fucking birthday."

"Yeah, that I can do." Cas's mischief is back, but Dean completely misses the hint of disappointment behind it.

Cas sinks his fingers into Dean's hair and his teeth into Dean's neck. Dean takes another drag and moans, free hand pulling Cas back by the jaw and kissing him sloppily, like he's been wanting to since he got here. Cas responds eagerly, licking into Dean's mouth as his fingers pull at the hem of Dean's shirt. They separate long enough to get both their shirts off, and bare chest to bare chest is the best thing Dean's felt in a while, he has to admit.

Cas slides his mouth from Dean's Adam's apple to his collarbone, lips hovering there, breath hot and heavy while he pulls quickly at Dean's belt, hands hovering over the buckles of his thigh holster.

"I can't believe we've never explored the massive turn-on that is this thigh holster." Dean feels Cas smirk against his skin; he would laugh at the soft touch if he were ticklish.

"We still can, babe." Dean only ever calls Cas 'babe' on special occasions. He only calls Cas '_baby_' when he's in the throes of an orgasm. He wants to call Cas 'baby' _so badly_ right now.

"Later. I've been thinking about sucking you off all day." Cas's frankness in these situations never fails to make Dean's blood head straight south, exactly like it's doing now. Cas is too careful not to give Dean any satisfaction as he works open the buckles and tosses the holster carelessly behind him.

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing." Dean's voice goes broken and breathy on the last word of that sentence, as Cas has unbuttoned, unzipped, and reached inside Dean's jeans, stroking him slowly and firmly until he's so hard he nearly aches with it. His head swims with a haze of need and frustration, and the muscles in his body begin to so slack, arms falling uselessly to his sides as he keeps his glassy eyes fixed on Cas's face.

"You gonna put that out?" Cas gestures to the half-smoked cigarette, still hanging from Dean's fingers. He cocks his head to the side, baring his neck in a gesture of trust and invitation- the light hits the older burn marks scattered across his collarbones and shoulder- newer ones from a week or so ago, others that get fainter and fainter, evidence of just one of Cas's many kinks. Dean loves this one in particular- burn marks last so much longer than hickeys. Even with all of Cas's well advertised dalliances, Dean knows he's the only one allowed to put out his cigarettes on Cas's fragile human skin.

Dean smirks at the thought, takes one last drag and presses the butt somewhere between a burn from Christmas and one from thanksgiving. There will be plenty more by Valentine's day. It's a poor and fucked up substitute for how he would have treated Cas, if circumstances had been different. But God, the way Cas's breath jumps when the heat touches him- the way he moans with a distracted smile when Dean licks over the burn, savouring the taste of sweat and ash; Dean doesn't have a fuck to give right now about the way things might have been. That will come later.

Cas finally shifts back, kneels between Dean's legs and takes Dean's cock into his mouth, steady grip on Dean's thighs, his mouth working magic. He's giving Dean enough to make it good, but teasing him just enough that it'll last as long as he wants it to. He pulls back every few seconds to lick slowly had the head, only to go down as far as he can a moment later. At some point he gets frustrated, leaning back entirely and tugging at Dean's jeans, wordlessly getting Dean to strip them off altogether. It's not often Dean is the one to be entirely naked first- even now, it somehow makes him feel like he's losing a battle that he and Cas have been at since the dawn of time- but then Cas's mouth is back on him, wetter and hotter than before and Dean remembers why he likes the fact that Cas is the only one who can take him apart so completely.

"Fuck, Cas, that's it baby, that's it." Dean tugs harshly at Cas's hair, and Cas _groans_, sending a powerful shudder through Dean, from the base of his spine right to the ends of his fingers. Dean feels his orgasm building quickly- he clenches his jaw and rolls his hips, once, twice, three times, and it rips through him, his head falling back with a broken cry. Cas swallows around him, milking him dry, waiting until Dean's hips have fallen back to the floor before he pulls off, lips spit-slick and bitter as they find Dean's once more.

Dean moans into the kiss, his basic motor function returning to him enough so that his fingers can get Cas's jeans open. He slides his cold hands into them, feeling the goose bumps raise on Cas's ass where he grabs it and pulls Cas into position- grinding down on Dean's thigh like he's a teenager looking for a quick get-off. Dean can't describe how much he loves when Cas is like this- his face flushed, hair the very definition of sex. Yeah, real hard to think about anything along the lines of apocalypse when Cas looks so damn good.

"You could come just like this, huh? Without me even having to touch you." Dean huffs, still trying to catch his breath from his own climax. Cas grips Dean's biceps for dear life, hips falling into a disjointed rhythm.

"Dean, please." He says, not nearly wrecked enough for Dean's liking.

"No, no. I'm enjoying the show a little too much. You're so desperate for me angel, so desperate. God, I wish you were riding me for real right now, fucking yourself on my cock."

"I will Dean, I swear I will, fuck, just- please touch me, I _need_ you to touch me." Cas's voice is less voice and more breath, more out of breath, stripped of any pride or pretence. Dean smiles, once again licking over the mark he's left on Cas's shoulder.

"Since you asked so nicely." Dean palms Cas's cock through his unzipped jeans, just enough so that he's technically touching, but not enough so that Cas is completely satisfied. He growls complaints in Dean's ear, wanting more- but it apparently doesn't matter. He comes within seconds, nails digging into Dean's arms and leaving parentheses around where the handprint used to be. His head falls to Dean's chest, gasping for air, strung out and come soaked and still every inch the bastard he's always been. Because just as Dean begins to smile smugly, Cas reaches under the bed and pulls out a plastic bag.

Before Dean even knows what's really happening, he feels the sting of an elastic being pinged against his neck (party hat- God damn it), and hears the more than moderately obnoxious whiz of a party horn as Cas blows it _right in his fucking ear_.

"_Son of a bitch_." Dean grabs for Cas, but Cas evades capture, sliding away from Dean and sitting back on his heels, just out of Dean's immediate reach. Dean glares at him with all the hellfire he can muster giving that he probably looks like a grumpy five-year-old who didn't get the toy they wanted. He recalls Cas staring at the shelf in the store earlier and mentally curses himself for not guessing that Cas would pull some shit.

"I will beat your ass." He threatens unconvincingly, ripping the (pink and sparkly, _Jesus Christ_) party hat from his head and chucking towards the fireplace. Cas raises his eyebrows in entertained condescension.

"As long as it's not the _only_ thing you do to my ass." He blows the horn one more time and tosses t as well, shuffling forward again so that Dean can grab at his hips (a little too hard) and pull him back in. The flesh there is pliable, breakable, easily bruised if Dean squeezes hard enough. Cas lights another cigarette and Dean's brain reverts t melancholy and hopeless in a red hot minute. The storm is still raging- the world is still ending. Cas is still with him, still here at rock bottom.

"You know I'm gonna get you killed someday, right? Someday soon, likely as not."

Cas exhales thoughtfully, the smoke from his lips no linger good for clouding the issue.

"I'm counting on it." He says, the bare bones of a smirk playing at the corners of his eyes, miles and miles away from his eyes. Dean catches them, glinting and glassy when they meet his, and Dean can't remember Cas actually looked him in the eye, or vice versa. Any playfulness in the air has been well and truly stamped out- Dean feels it again, the acute awareness of every place he and Cas are touching (legs, hands on hips, arms around shoulders), and just how close their faces are (a mere two inches, and Dean can feel Cas's breath on his neck). He curses himself for doing this, for actually talking about that thing they don't talk about (them). He never gets like this after sex- he gets boneless and spineless and actually sleeps for a while if he's lucky- he's never so stupid sentimental that he voices his biggest regrets- his biggest doubts- his biggest questions.

"Why do you stay?" He asks Cas, when he finally decides to give up and go the whole hog on this mushy gushy stuff.

"I'm an addict, Dean." Cas says simply, like it's the obvious answer. Like that explains everything perfectly. It does though, it does, but Dean doesn't feel any better. He didn't expect to.

Dean has come to terms with the fact that he is an empty house, filled with old furniture, covered in drop sheets that look more like ghosts. His bones barely hold under his own weight anymore. The power lines have long since fallen, cutting him off from light and power and warmth when the winter winds howl. The paint is peeling off his walls, and soon the bricks will be so cracked that he won't be able to stop himself caving in. And he can't figure out, for the life of him, why anyone would ever want to come inside.

* * *

_**Now.**_

The storm hits at about three in the afternoon. There's nearly an hour of rain gone to sleet gone to hail- nothing too big, although Dean could have sworn he heard something like a baseball clatter against the thin roof off his cabin. He drinks and drinks until he finally feels something- his tolerance is so high, and he's shocked that he's never had an overdose. Cardiac arrest doesn't sound too bad most of the time, if he's being honest. Some days, the quest to kill Abaddon (and then Crowley) is all that really keeps him breathing. And with the way that's been going lately- it's pretty thin ice. He expects his foot to go through anytime now.

Just when he starts to feel something akin to light-headedness, Cas finally cuts him off. Dean grumbles about it for about two seconds, at which point Cas fixes him with a straight stare (and there's no arguing after that). While Cas pours the rest of the booze down the drain, Dean sits statue still on the edge of the bed while, elbows digging painfully into his legs, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes until he sees stars. Anything so he doesn't have to see Cas staring at him, into him, like he could look right through Dean if he wanted to. Dean glances up once, quickly, takes in the sight of Cas in the chair by the window, hands folded in his lap, as though he has to consciously stop them from reaching out for something. Dean hates himself for being the thing Cas is always trying to reach for.

By five, the storm has stilled enough that Dean can safely venture outside. Dean makes some excuse about stowing the weapons in the trunk, grabs the two duffels, and high-tails it out into the parking lot. Though there's nothing falling from the sky at the moment, there's a sharp wind that whips through camp, biting at his body as soon as he steps outside. He sets off into a jog, feeling as though the skin of his face will be flayed clean off if he stays out here too long. There's not another soul to speak of in the lot or on the street- everyone in the motel (and probably the town) has hunkered down, closed their doors and their curtains, probably under the covers praying that the worst of winter will be over soon. Dean hasn't given much thought to it, but praying really is the most ineffective thing you can do to fend off a crisis nowadays. He knows. He's tried.

He drops the overloaded duffel bag in the trunk with a satisfying crash of metal against metal as the guns and knives settle in on top of each other. He keeps two (or three) knives on himself, because it's just irrefutable muscle memory to be armed at this point in his life. He remembers the first time his father handed him a gun and wants to resurrect the bastard just so he can bury him again.

Dean pauses at the passenger door, wondering if maybe Sam might have missed something when he went over the Impala looking for drugs to take away. He finds them in the glove box- a half smoked pack of Marlboros. Dean picked them up just after Kevin- Dean hasn't been a "smoker" since Sam ditched him for Stanford. He knows he did quite a number on his lungs back then. Kevin getting fried was about as good a time as any to pervert that famous phrase about old habits.

He lights one up and leans back against the car, no longer bothered by the fact that he might get frostbite if he stays out here long enough to finish this cigarette. The roiling heat that the mark gives off has just about made any sort of cold tolerable- even welcome. The taste of smoke, he realises, is somewhat like the taste of sulfur that has been creeping up the back of his throat lately. He tries not to think about what that means.

It doesn't occur to him to think about what Cas is gonna do if he finds out; not until Cas is next to him, glaring with enough force to make Dean step back a couple feet.

"Seriously, Cas? You just found out I have the Mark of fucking _Cain_, and you're mad at me for one cigarette? Remind me to teach you the meaning of the word 'priorities'." It's the most clever retort Dean has been able to muster in god knows how long. That being said, his attempt at sounding sarcastic falls flat on its face. It comes out hollow. That's pretty damn fitting. He takes another drag and resists the urge to blow smoke in Cas's grumpy face, just to be spiteful. He's not spiteful against Cas, though- how can he be? He should blow smoke in his own face, if he feels spiteful about anyone here.

Just then, the heavens open up. Not like Dean has seen them do, with angels falling in balls of fire, but in the way that sends a deluge of sharp ice bits that fall like broken glass on their shoulders. Dean instinctively looks around, checking for threats, primal and instinctual before he comes to the conclusion that the only threat to his safety right now is himself.

"Are you going to put that out?" Cas asks gruffly. The 'do it or I'll make you' is subtext. Barely. Dean rolls his eyes in concession, grinding the butt into the ground with his heel. Cas turns and walks back towards the room. And as much as Dean really would like to stay out in this weather, he doesn't want to risk getting manhandled by Cas, as he and Cas both know can and will happen if Dean doesn't follow.

Dean follows. It's a change of pace for them. Dean has lead Cas to his death more than once (God, how is that such a normal thing to him?), and the burden that comes with being the one that leads is just another straw that has been breaking Dean's back since he was eight and Sam decided he wanted to be just like his older brother.

_If you could only see me now, Sammy._

The door slams shut behind him, aided by another gust of wind that hits the wall hard. The roar of hail on the roof adds to the static constantly grinding away at Dean's subconscious. He presses his fingertips hard into his temples and once again wishes for a bottle of painkillers.

Cas rounds on him, as if he can _fucking sense_ Dean's self destructive internal monologue, and pushes Dean by the shoulder until Dean is back where he was a few minutes ago, on the edge of the bed, this time with Cas looming over him.

"Tell me what happened." Cas orders, the same way a Mom orders her kid to explain themselves when she finds a lamp broken. _'Tell me the truth and you won't get in trouble'_. Tough shit. Dean's already in a whole heap of trouble.

"Well, after Kevin died, I started smoking again." He deadpans.

"I mean with the Mark of Cain." Cas is unimpressed by Dean's bullshit. Of course, Dean has yet to find anyone who isn't.

"I told you-"

"You told me you did it to kill Abaddon." Cas expects a longer version of events than that.

"Well, me and Crowley were trying to figure out how to-"

"You and Crowley?" Cas has the nerve to sound more than a little betrayed.

"You're one to talk." Dean shoots back, and Cas's eyes fall. That's it. It's the thing they never talk about; the wound in their relationship that never healed over- the broken bone that didn't get set properly. They've been limping on ever since.

"I did what I had to do." Dean pulls out the shit excuse. "Just like you did." It's not forgiveness; it's something like understanding, like Dean gets why Cas did what he did way back when. It still hurts. "Now, can you let me finish the damn story?"

Cas says nothing, just nods, kneeling at Dean's feet. It's not a grand gesture, but there's nothing subtle about it; Cas still thinks he has to try and atone for his sins, even now. Dean's going to let him.

"Crowley knew that there's only one weapon that can kill a Knight of Hell- something called the first blade. It belonged to Cain- it was the weapon he used when he killed his brother. Killing Abel, it- it turned him into a demon." Dean belatedly realises that Cas probably knows all of this already- he was probably around when it happened. Cas doesn't say anything; he just keeps his eyes fixed on Dean's face, gaze mournful and something else that Dean doesn't want to think about at the moment.

"We tracked down Cain. He pretty much keeps to himself these days; he keeps bees." The absurdity of it reminds Dean of when Cas went nuts and started collecting honey. That almost makes him less sad. Almost. Cas's mouth quirks up in an empty smirk. Obviously those aren't fond memories for him.

"Cain told us that the First Blade only works if the bearer has the Mark. He wasn't about to help us kill Abaddon- he has this thing about violence, ever since his girlfriend-" it's then Cain and Collette's relationship falls beside he and Cas's-

_She knew who I was... and what I was. She loved me unconditionally. She forgave me._

"Cas." Dean's voice is suddenly hoarse. His throat is dry and his hands are shaky. He reaches for Cas's shoulder, to steady himself, even though he's already sitting down- the room i beginning to feel like a carnival ride.

"Cas, what am I going to turn into?"

"You've come back from a lot worse than this, Dean. I'm not going to let this happen to you." Cas answers earnestly. "Whatever happens to you- it's not who you are. I know that, and I need _you_ to know that."

Cas pushes himself up so he's eye-level with Dean, one of his hands on Dean's arm, the other on the side of his face. Dean remembers when their positions were reversed- when Cas was human and dead and Dean would have taken six Marks to bring him back. He held Cas's face in his hands and felt a freight train go through his chest- he can't let that happen again.

"You know I'm gonna get you killed someday, right? For good. No reset button." He chokes out. Cas doesn't argue, how can he? Instead he leans up and presses a kiss to Dean's forehead. Dean pulls him down to kiss him properly, slightly desperate, slightly in a state of disbelief. Cas kisses him like it's what he was born to do. They stay silent for a few long seconds after, their faces close, breaths one in the same. Dean feels it again, the acute awareness of every place he and Cas are touching (his hands on Cas's arms, Cas's hand on his cheek), and just how close their faces are (a mere two inches, and Dean can feel Cas's breath on his neck). He curses himself for doing this, for actually talking about that thing they don't talk about (them), though he doesn't have much of a choice at this point. He never gets like this with Cas, on purpose- he's never so stupid sentimental that he voices his biggest regrets- his biggest doubts- his biggest questions.

"Why do you stay?" He asks Cas, when he finally decides to give up and go the whole hog on this mushy gushy stuff.

"I love you, Dean." Cas says simply, like it's the obvious answer. Like that explains everything perfectly. It does though, it does, but Dean doesn't really feel that much better. He didn't expect to.

Dean has come to terms with the fact that he is an empty house, filled with old furniture, covered in drop sheets that look more like ghosts. His bones barely hold under his own weight anymore. The power lines have long since fallen, cutting him off from light and power and warmth when the winter winds howl. The paint is peeling off his walls, and soon the bricks will be so cracked that he won't be able to stop himself caving in. And he can't figure out, for the life of him, why anyone would ever want to come inside.

* * *

_**i forgot if cas could fly with the stolen grace. something tells me he could have? but i wanted him to drive. it adds to the longing and suspense. i gave endverse cas's cabin a fireplace (i dont think it actually had one?). because i fucking can. also, an unopened jar of pickles really can last two years past the printed date! more knowledge that you didnt really need, courtesy of fic. **_

_**i always throw my own head canons into fic, like the carving the initials into the bed frame. the "dean being a smoker when sam was at stanford" one is from a post i saw in tumblr a looooong time ago.**_

_** comments are appreciated! 3**_

_**come visit me on tumblr! (eoarwen)**_


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